Arms and the Woman

"I like your frankness," said Pembroke. "I have no doubt that

journalism is the most fascinating profession there is. Yet, you must

not accuse the rich of being ambitionless. I have known of rich men

losing their all to make papers for men who are ambitious to be foreign

correspondents." The young fellow was brimming with raillery. "I have

never tried to run a newspaper, but I am, notwithstanding your tirade,

ambitious. I am desirous to wed Miss Landors."

The cab was now rolling along the row.

"A truly great ambition," I admitted. "After all, what greater

ambition is there than to marry the woman you love? Philip, I will

accept your gift in the spirit it is given, and I'll make use of it in

the days to come, when I am old and rusted. I understand your motive.

You are happy and wish every one to be."

"That's the idea," said he, leaning back and spreading an arm behind my

shoulders.

"But not all the money in the world, nor all the fame for that matter,

would make me happy." Gretchen was so far away! "Very well; we'll go

to Paris together; that is as far as I go. To follow her you will have

to go alone."

"And why can't you go the rest of the way?"

"Work. I must be back in town in three days. You must not forget that

I have had my vacation; there is plenty to be done."

"Now that you are comparatively wealthy, why not give up the grind, as

you call it?"

"The truth is, I must work. When a man works he forgets."

"Then you have something to forget?"

"Every man who has reached the age of thirty has something to forget,"

said I.

I was gloomy. In my pocket I had the only letter I had ever received

from Gretchen. Every hour fate outdoes the romancer. The story she

had written for me was a puzzling one. And the finis? Who could say?

Fate is more capricious than the novelist; sometimes you can guess what

he intends for an end; what fate has in store, never. Gretchen's

letter did not begin as letters usually do. It began with "I love you"

and ended with the same sentence. "In November my marriage will take

place. Do not come abroad. I am growing strong now; if I should see

you alas, what would become of that thin ice covering the heart of

fire; we have nothing to return, you and I. I long to see you; I dare

not tell you how much. Who knows what the world holds hidden? While

we live there is always a perhaps. Remember that I love you!"